Enter Sandman
by admiralpompousbutt
Summary: Episode 2. Sam and Dean are reunited and are working a case. The residents of a nearby town are suddenly turning homicidal and no one knows why. Lots of Winchester angst and an appearance from a certain angel. No pairings. AU. Post Swan Song.
1. Prologue

_That's right, folks. Leanor and Mariah are back for another installment of our version of Supernatural Season 6.  
Episode 2.  
Sorry about the wait. These things are harder than you think. That's what she said. _

_P.S. Reviews are greatly appreciated. But not required. Obviously. Nothing recognizable belongs to us.  
_

_Here it is. Sweet Dreams._

Nora wanted to scream. She wanted to rip that little slut's hair out. There they were. Her boyfriend and her best friend, limbs tangled, breathing heavily as they tumbled about in the sheets, like an ugly monster rearing its hideous head.

They were shameless. And she saw it all.

Anger coursed through her veins like fire, igniting a kind of hatred in her that she didn't know she was capable of. Her skin burned and fury clouded her vision. She felt dizzy, about to pass out. Her mind was suddenly clear. She knew what she had to do. She stood in the doorway, looking into her room where the two had been only moments before. They were gone now, but Nora knew what she had to do.

She looked on the floor where Jenna slept, curled in a sleeping bag. She looked so innocent on the floor, smiling in her sleep. It made Nora want to gag. She knew the truth.

She charged down the stairs of her home and ran to the kitchen. Jealousy and rage became her life blood; it spread through her body like poison. She pulled the drawer open with a bang and started hunting for what she needed.

Her fingers grasped the thick handle of the meat cleaver and she pulled it from the drawer triumphantly. Her reflection gleamed in the knife; her eyes shone with malice, her mouth watered with bloodlust. She raised the cleaver higher, but something caught her eye in the kitchen window. Nora quickly turned and saw the traitor standing in the kitchen.

Jenna looked on Nora, terrified. Nora's face was twisted in rage. A deranged gleam shone in her eyes. She looked rabid.

"Nora," Jenna asked cautiously, "What are you doing?" She stepped back from Nora tentatively, crossing her arms in a feeble attempt to protect herself.

"I could ask you the same thing, _Jenna_," Nora replied bitingly.

Jenna was paralyzed with fear, unable to take her eyes of the cleaver that glinted threateningly in Nora's hand.

"What do you mean?" Jenna could stop the wobble in her voice.

"YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, YOU WHORE!" Nora yelled back. She took a menacing step forward and gripped the cleaver more tightly.

An incredulous look spread across Jenna's face. She stepped back away from her friend, afraid.

"Nora, put the knife down," she said, her voice shaking.

"You don't get to tell me what to do," Nora hissed.

"What are you talking about?" She glanced at her advancing friend.

"You and Will," she hissed as she took another step, "Up in my bed."

Another step.

"You disgusting, selfish slut."

Jenna could not stop the tears from streaming down her face, trembling, fearing for her life.

"Nora, please," she begged, "I don't know what I've done. Nora, what's going on?"

"Don't," Nora barked, "Don't act like you don't know."

"I don't," Jenna managed to whisper.

Nora couldn't contain her anger a moment longer. She lunged at Jenna, who quickly dodged out of the way and began to run. She screamed as she ran to the front door and fumbled with the lock clumsily. She couldn't see for her eyes were bleary with tears and her hands shook violently, making the simple task of turning the latch impossible. She looked over her shoulder and before she could react, the blade of the cleaver slid into her back.

A white hot pain spread through her body as she fell to the floor, crying out in pain.

Nora felt a release with every stab, the anger slowly subsiding as she cut her treacherous friend to pieces in the entryway of her house.

She stood and looked at her handiwork. Wiping the blood off her face with the back of her arm, she looked contemptuously down on the bloody remains splattered across the floor.

"Bitch."

SUPERNATURAL


	2. Chapter 1

_Next (or really, first) chapter! Alright!_  
_We hope you enjoy, as always. Feel free to share your thoughts and feelings._  
_About the story or life in general. _  
_It's a free country._

_Nothing recognizable belongs to us._

Dean sat at the kitchen table, flipping through the sports section while Ben sat across from him working on his math homework. It had been a week since he had seen Sam and met Mattea. He hadn't seen her since their car ride where she informed him that she was a fugitive from Heaven.

The last thing Dean wanted was to be harboring a renegade angel. Fortunately, he hadn't found himself in any life threatening situations and hadn't had any occasion to see her. Things had been normal since that day. As normal as they could be.

Sam's inexplicable return occupied Dean's thoughts a good deal of the time. He tried to focus on his work and his family, but constantly found his mind drifting back to his little brother. His little brother that was miraculously alive.

Even now, as he half-heartedly examined the Cubs' dismal stats, he found himself thinking about what could explain Sam's resurrection. And, as usual, he drew a blank.

Dean's shoulders jumped when the phone in his pocket started to ring. He wasn't expecting a call. He didn't really expect calls anymore.

He pulled the phone from his front pocket and looked at the caller ID.

Sam.

Dean frowned in confusion. He stood up from the table, shooting Ben a reassuring smile, before walking to the front door and stepping outside.

He flipped the phone open and held it to his ear.

"Sammy?"

"Dean, hey," Sam's voice said on the other end of the line. It was still incredibly bizarre and surreal for Dean, to hear his brother's voice again.

"Hey. What's going on?"

"Dean, I need your help," Sam replied, urgently.

"With?" Dean was already apprehensive.

"Dean," Sam began, adopting a cajoling tone. Dean knew where he was going and stopped him.

"No, Sam," Dean said with finality.

"Dean, I could really use your help on this one," Sam tried to persuade his brother, but he knew he was in for a tough fight.

"Well, then take Bobby," Dean replied harshly.

"Bobby's on a job. Dean, please. Just hear me out," Sam started pleading with his brother.

"I can't, Sam," Dean stated resolutely.

"Well, what was all that at Bobby's? About wanting a hunt?" Sam asked, throwing Dean's words back in his face.

"That was a lie, Sam. That's all," Dean said in a tone that would've ended the argument when they were younger. But Sam wasn't so easily dissuaded anymore.

"Dean, I wouldn't ask if I thought I could do this by myself," Sam said gravely.

Dean was taken aback by this. Sam was hardly one to admit he couldn't do something by himself. A nagging doubt at the back of his mind told him to refuse, but Sam was his brother and he couldn't say no. Not when he needed his help.

"When and where?"

Dean pulled up to the Cloud Nine Motel in Carsten, Indiana, a town a couple of miles away from his home. He did not approach this place or this job with an attitude fitting a hunter. He was wracked with guilt and apprehension. Dean hadn't told Lisa where he was going or who he was going to be with. Dean was many things, but dishonest wasn't something he liked to include.

The engine idled for a few moments as he sat in the parked car outside the room where Sam had instructed they meet. He pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car. He stood at the door to room 237, his fist raised to knock, when the door swung open. Sam stood inside, looking remarkably relieved to see his brother.

"Dean," Sam said haltingly, "Hey."

"Hey, Sam," Dean replied as he stepped into the room.

"How've you been, Dean?" Sam asked, rather formally.

"Um, fine," Dean responded, confused by his brother's bizarre greeting.

"Good, good," Sam said, sitting down at the Formica table strewn with newspaper clippings and confidential files.

"So, what are we dealing with here?" Dean said, taking the seat on the opposite side of the table, looking over the information Sam had meticulously gathered.

Sam was hesitant to answer, "I don't know yet. But I've got this feeling—."

"Sam," Dean interrupted, trying to cap his annoyance, "Please don't tell me you pulled me out here on a hunch."

"You haven't let me finish," Sam replied, equally irritated, "And if you think that it's nothing, Huntsville is just a few miles away."

Dean sighed and nodded his head. He couldn't argue with that.

"Nora Baker, seventeen years old. A junior at Carsten High School. She stabbed her best friend Jenna Nordstrom to death two weeks ago," Sam explained, only giving the bare details.

"So?" Dean couldn't see the issue, at least, why it would be an issue for them.

"I mean, she tore her to ribbons, Dean. Completely out of the blue. Nora was a straight-A student, played on the Varsity Lacrosse team," Sam picked up a tan folder and started flipping through the pages, "The only red-flag would be that recently she started seeing the school shrink because of stress."

Dean sat back in his chair. He closed the file he had been looking at and tossed back on the table, "Well, there. See, the girl just flipped her lid."

Sam scoffed skeptically, "You don't stab your best friend to death because midterms are stressing you out, Dean."

"Okay," Dean replied, humoring his brother, "So, where is this Nora girl now?"

"Psych ward at the local hospital."

"Right," Dean said, still not convinced that anything there was anything about this case that concerned them.

"Nora confessed to killing Jenna, but the police decided to keep her under psychological surveillance," Sam explained, choosing to ignore the obvious skepticism in Dean's voice.

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean said, "None of this sounds too strange. At least, not our kind of strange."

Sam shrugged. He knew he couldn't convince Dean, not without more proof. But even Dean's doubt wasn't enough to make him leave without seeing this case through to the end.

"So, you think something supernatural turned Nora Baker into Lizzie Borden," Dean said, realizing that was no changing Sam's mind about this.

"Pretty much."

"You talked to her yet?"

"Only read the police reports."

Dean closed his eyes and sighed in distaste, "We are going to have to talk to her, aren't we?"

"Yep."

"Man, I hate these things," Dean said as he looked in the rear view mirror at his reflection. He tugged at the knot of his tie and pulled at the stiff collar of his shirt.

He couldn't hide the grimace on his face. These monkey suits always made him feel like a fool, and the wire-rimmed glasses definitely didn't help, "I look like you when you were a nerd back at Stanford."

Dean looked over to Sam with a smirk, "Well, when you were _nerdier_. You're still a nerd."

"I've never worn glasses, Dean," Sam refuted, rolling his eyes, "Even when I was nose deep in law books."

Sam blinked. His face was blank and his eyes were distant.

Stanford. His dreams of being a lawyer. Jessica. All these dreams were so long gone. He hadn't thought about any of it in years.

"Yeah, well I look like that dorky douche-wad Doctor Who guy," Dean said, still frowning in the mirror.

"Who?" Sam asked, Dean's remark pulling him from this distracted thoughts.

Dean sunk back into his seat.

"Ben," he began, "He watches Doctor Who. It's nerdy and stupid and—," he suddenly stopped himself, "Whatever."

"Come on," Sam said, opening the car door.

They walked up the concrete steps leading to the hospital. The automatic doors of the hospital opened with a hiss and they walked through.

They were greeted with the sterile white tiles, the monotonous voice over the intercom, and smell of disinfectant that seemed synonymous these houses of healing.

They approached the front desk where a mousy nurse sat, diligently filling out paperwork.

"Hello, miss," Dean said. The tone of his voice was different. He sounded professional, commanding.

"Can I help you?" she asked, clearly not intimidated by the two of them.

"I'm Detective Fletcher and this is Detective Judd," Sam said, gesturing first to himself then to Dean, "We were sent by the Pollack County Sherriff Department to investigate the murder of Jenna Nordstrom. We were informed that Nora Baker is here and we were wondering if we might speak to her."

Sam and Dean flashed their fake I.D.s. The nurse took a calculating look at the forged identification, then at their faces, and was satisfied.

"I'm not allowed to leave my post, but if you just wait a few moments, I'll call someone to escort you to the psychology ward," the nurse said. She picked up the phone on the desk, and called for assistance.

Sam and Dean stepped away from the desk. Dean could hardly stifle the triumphant smile on his face.

"What?"

"Still got it," Dean said smugly.

A male nurse in blue scrubs approached Sam and Dean after a few moments of waiting and ushered them towards the elevator. After a tense ride up the elevator and a walk down a white hallway of nearly unbearable cleanliness, the nurse and the two Winchester brothers came to room 410.

Dean gazed around at the colorless walls through clear lenses and found that a world that was framed was weird and unnatural. And the fact that he looked like a total dweeb didn't help, either.

"These glasses suck," Dean said, before he could censor himself. The nurse looked back at Dean with a quizzical look on his face.

"They're new," he improvised quickly, a bit annoyed with himself. He looked over at his brother, whose slicked hair and furrowed brow gave the general impression of nerdiness.

The nurse unlocked the door to room 410 and opened the door. Dean and Sam looked inside and saw that the room was more of cell, a small white room with a small window and a narrow bed against the wall.

Inside was Nora Baker. She sat on the unmade bed, hugging her knees to her chest, looking out the window.

"Hello, Miss Baker?" Sam inquired as he and Dean stepped into the room. She turned around to look at the two strangers. Her face was blank.

"You can call me Nora," she said, her voice devoid of any discernable emotion.

Sam smiled at the girl. She looked as normal they come. Her long blonde hair was in a pony tail. She had a round face and a twiggy body, all in all, a cute but gawky teenage girl.

"We're federal agents," Sam said, taking a step towards her, "And we're here to ask you a few questions."

"About the murder?"

Sam was taken aback.

"Um, yes, actually," he replied, genuinely surprised by her candidness.

"I thought as much," she said, turning her head to look back out the window, "I'd offer you a seat, but I haven't got any chairs in here."

There was no jocularity in her tone. She was icy and closed off. She was beginning to look and sound the like cold-blooded killer she was.

Dean looked at Sam through his glasses helplessly. Dean was wholly perplexed and not entirely sure how to proceed. Sam only frowned and shrugged as if to say "Let's just roll with it."

"You're awfully comfortable with this, Nora," Dean began, "You do realize that you murdered someone."

Her eyes never moved from the window.

"She deserved it," she said quietly, emotionlessly. Dean felt chills run down his spine.

He looked back at Sam. Though he hated to admit it, he felt a little lost on what he should do. Even though he'd been hunting all his life and lying to get information was practically second nature, jumping back into the game after a year of retirement was harder than he anticipated.

Seeing his brother handling the situation a little haplessly for comfort, Sam took over.

"Tell us what happened," he prompted, trying his best to remain his cool, professional demeanor.

Nora's empty eyes continued to stare out the window, "That whore screwed my boyfriend, so I killed her."

It then became clear to Dean why she was in this place. This girl showed no remorse, no sorrow at slaughtering her best friend.

"Would you care to elaborate?" Sam asked as he pulled out his pen and paper. Dean followed suit.

"Like what?" she said calmly, her eyes following the passers-by on the pavement four stories down.

"Like what happened that night?" Dean offered.

"Jenna and I were having a sleepover, like we always did before weekend games; it was just easier that way because of the carpool. In the middle of the night, I got up to use the bathroom. When I got back, there they were, going at it in mybed. My head started throbbing and I felt dizzy. I had to lean against the wall to keep from falling over. Then the headache just went away and I walked back in, Will was gone and she was sleeping. She acted like she hadn't done anything. And I thought, 'That slut needs to die,'" Nora explained listlessly. Her words had no effect on her. She felt nothing.

Sam, however, felt uneasy. Talking to Nora was the closest he had ever come to talking to a psychopathic killer. He was accustomed to senseless killing by mythical creatures and monsters, but to see a seventeen year old girl murder so heartlessly was proving to be far more difficult to handle. Sam looked over at Dean, who was listening intently.

"I went down stairs, got a butcher knife so I could slice her up, but she came down to the kitchen. Saved me a trip back up," she paused, lingering on her thoughts.

"Go on," Dean pressed, "Did Jenna say anything?"

"Well, she denied everything, of course," Nora continued, "But I knew. I saw them."

Her head whipped around to Dean and Sam, her once hollow eyes were now alight with rage.

"So I went after her and stuck the cleaver in her back."

Dean swallowed hard. He was afraid of this girl. He looked to Sam, whose jaw was clenched tight; the muscles in his face and neck were visibly taut. Dean felt relieved knowing that Sam was unnerved by this girl, as well.

"Tell me, Nora," Sam asked, "When you killed Jenna, did you feel like you were watching someone else murder her, like you had no control over your body?"

Nora frowned and shook her head, "I knew exactly what I was doing. No one told me to kill her; I just knew it had to be done."

"You don't remember seeing any black smoke or smelling sulfur before you went down to the kitchen for the knife?" Sam tried again, a part of him already knowing his questions would not yield the answers he wanted.

"Why are you asking me this?" Nora asked skeptically, "What does this have to do with anything?"

Sam adjusted his shoulders uncomfortably and looked at Nora, who was glaring suspiciously at them, "Just some routine questions. We appreciate you letting us come and speak with you."

"Thank you, Nora, for all your time," Dean said, more thankful to finally have the chance to get out of there.

Sam and Dean quitted the room, thanked the escort and left the hospital.

Back in the Impala, Dean ripped the glasses from his face and loosened his tie.

"God, that girl gave me the creeps," he said with a shudder.

"I'll say," Sam agreed, "I mean, she wasn't even possessed. She actually killed her best friend because she wanted to. "

"It's crazy what people are capable of," Dean reflected thoughtfully, "But you know what this means, don't you, Sammy?"

Sam shook his head, "What?"

Dean looked to his brother expectantly, but Sam only drew a blank.

"It means this isn't really our jurisdiction, Sam. There's nothing supernatural going on here. Let's let the police handle this one," Dean explained as he started the car.

Sam immediately protested.

"Let's not jump to conclusions, here, Dean. We don't know everything. We haven't talked to the boyfriend or the school shrink, yet."

Dean shook his head in disbelief. Sam ignored his brother's obvious doubt. He couldn't say why, but he was certain there was more going on than they knew.

"I just think we have to do a little more investigating before we completely write this one off," Sam finished, looking pleadingly to his brother.

Dean scowled in thought. They had investigated some seriously supernatural cases going on a whole lot less than what he had in front of him.

"Alright, Sammy. But if you're wrong, you owe me. You owe me big."


	3. Chapter 2

_And without further ado: Chapter 2  
L&M_

_(We own nothing recognizable)  
_

Dean sat in the motel room, hunched over the table, poring over the police reports. He looked at Nora's mug shot. She was cold, with daggers in her eyes. The camera captured the hatred that seemed to course through her veins and poison the innocent child she once was.

Dean began to hope that there was something behind this. He was never the optimist Sam was, but even Dean didn't want to admit that there was something in mankind that could just switch on and off, something that could turn any person into a cold-blooded killer.

But with Sam, it wasn't a switch. He had endured hell. He had been trapped in a cage, surviving a kind of torture that no human should be able to survive.

Just as Dean's thought began to turn to darker than he was comfortable with, the keys clicked in the lock and Sam came through the door.

"Well?" Dean asked expectantly.

"Talked to the boyfriend, Will Dennings."

"And?"

"And he is pretty freaked out," Sam said, dropping himself down in the seat opposite Dean.

"Wouldn't you be? You try finding out your girlfriend hacked her best friend to pieces."

"That isn't why he is freaked out, Dean," Sam said, almost taunting Dean with his newfound information.

"Enlighten me," Dean replied cynically.

"When I asked him about the accusations of him cheating on Nora that night with Jenna, he said it was impossible."

"Of course he did, Sam. He is a teenage boy."

"No, Dean. He was on vacation in Vancouver with his family the weekend Jenna was killed," Sam explained, "It is geographically impossible for them to have done anything. At least, that night."

"Nora was hallucinating?"

"I guess," Sam said with a shrug, just as baffled as Dean, "Did she have a history of hallucination? Like, in her psych profile?"

Dean flipped through the pages of the folder, "None that I could find."

"What do we know of that can project images into people's heads? Into their dreams?"

"Hey, Sammy. Let's not jump to conclusions. First, I think we better pay," Dean looked into the psych file once more, "Dr. Jeremy Bevin a visit."

Sam and Dean pulled into the parking lot of Carsten High School. Neither one looked on the building with any fondness.

Stepping out of the car, they adjusted their suits and put on their game faces. Stoic and professional, they strode up to the building and entered through the double doors. Approaching the secretary's desk, they flashed their fake IDs.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" the elderly woman who sat behind the desk asked innocently.

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said, "We are from the school district and we would like to speak to Dr. Bevin about Nora Baker."

The woman's sweet smile faded and she excused herself. She returned moments later with a middle-aged man.

"I'm Principal Dawkins," the man introduced himself, extending his hand to both Sam and Dean, who both shook it authoritatively, "May I ask your names?"

Sam and Dean whipped out their badges.

Sam did the talking, "I'm Detective Daltrey, and this is Detective Townshend. We are with the sheriff's department."

"And why do you wish to speak with Dr. Bevin?"

"Any time there is an act of school violence, the school district sends us to investigate."

"But, the violence didn't occur on campus, Detectives."

"Yes, we understand. But as the student attended this school, we need to ensure that no past violence occurred nor will any violence occur in the future. It's really just a safety precaution. We just need to speak with Dr. Bevin to ascertain Nora's mental state."

Mollified, Principal Dawkins led them to a small office where a relatively new placard reading "Dr. Jeremy Bevin" was Velcro-ed to the door. The principal excused himself and Sam and Dean were left standing before the door.

"I hate shrinks," Dean said distastefully.

"Yeah, so do I," Sam agreed before raising his fist and knocking on the door.

A small man in his late forties answered. He had horn-rimmed glasses and wore a sweater vest.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Bevin?" Dean asked.

"Yes."

"We are detectives from the sheriff. We need to discuss Nora Baker with you," Dean replied, it was more of a command than a request.

"Ah, I see," Dr. Bevin replied with a heavy nod, "Come in, gentlemen."

The office was tiny, little more than a hole in the wall. It seemed even smaller with all three crammed inside.

The walls were plastered with pictures of Freud and Jung, Rorschach ink blots, and diagrams of the human brain.

"So, tell us Doctor, what was Nora like before the incident," Sam prompted.

"Well, she initially came to me because of stress. Being captain of her Lacrosse team, plus school, her boyfriend and the fact that her parents are on a trial separation, she was feeling a little overwhelmed," Dr. Bevin explained.

"And the attack?"

"Was completely out of the blue. When the police came and told me, I was genuinely surprised. I never would've thought she had it in her. She was always so motivated, such a sweet girl."

"So, you can't think of any reason for her to suddenly act out so violently?" Dean asked.

"None at all. It baffles me, it really does. I thought she was doing so well. It just goes to show you, doesn't it . . . ." Dr. Bevin trailed off.

"Just goes to show what, Doctor?"

"You never know what people are capable of."

Sam and Dean stood up, thanked the doctor for his time, and left the office.

Sitting slumped on a plastic chair outside the office was a teenage boy who looked apathetically up at Sam and Dean as they left, then returned to the rapidly texting on his phone.

Dr. Bevin poked his head outside of the door and addressed the boy.

"I'll be with you in a moment, Jake."

Jake nodded at the doctor and then back to his phone.

"Jake?"

Jake looked back up, "Yeah?"

"Jake, we are with the police department. Can we ask you about Dr. Bevin?" Sam asked.

"What about him?"

"Well, how do you like him?"

Jake shrugged, "He's pretty cool, I guess. I mean, I didn't really want to start coming to see him; my mom made me."

"But?"

Jake brushed his gingery hair from his eyes, "But, now, I don't know, he's really helped me. He's just a good guy."

The door opened behind Sam and Dean and Jake stood up from his seat. With a small parting smile, he entered Dr. Bevin's office.

Jake slinked into the chair, as he usually did on Thursdays, wary of the two men who had just left the room. "Who were those guys?" he asked, confused by their questions.

Dr. Bevin smiled as he sat down in the leather chair opposite Jake.

"Detectives," he stated plainly. Jake didn't have to ask why they were at school.

Jake sighed and slid further into the large couch chair he was sitting in, letting the faux velvet run against his freckled skin.

"How are we doing today, Jacob?" Dr. Bevin asked.

Jake shook his head. "I don't know. I still can't talk to her."

Dr. Bevin tilted his head to the side. "Why not?"

The boy became frustrated and clenched his hands. "I don't know, Doc, probably because she's perfect?"

Jake realized what tone he spoke to Dr. Bevin and stopped for a moment. The doctor looked at him with stone cold gray eyes, peering into Jake's teenage, (as far as Jake was concerned) psychotic melon. Jake knew this would happen, the crazy stare that Dr. Bevin gave in every appointment. For some reason, the Stare made Jake want to spill his guts to the doctor. Usually, he held most of his feelings back, but today his mouth kept moving without any reservations.

"Like, today in English, I was staring at her like I always do and she was twirling her hair around her finger and chewing on her pen cap at the same time and she looked cute doing it. And when Havershom passed back the in-class essays we wrote on Friday, I saw her hand writing, which looks like legible calligraphy and it was in blue ball point. And then she talked in Calc 5th period yesterday and spewed off an alternate equation that Ms. Kohl hadn't gone over yet. She's a Mathlete. And she's that smart and that beautiful. And then while I was running errands for Principal Quinn, and I had to go to Coach Hart's office which is in the girls locker room, where I may or may not have seen her half naked when she was walking from the showers back to the benches. And her-," Jake stopped abruptly.

He almost told the school shrink about Mallory Wagner's breasts in full detail. He felt pressure rising in his jeans.

"Damn it."

He couldn't look at Dr. Bevin. He was embarrassed beyond belief.

"That was good, Jake," Bevin said as he wrote in his chicken scratch on the legal pad to his left, "That was a good expression of how you feel."

Jake sighed.

"What I've been able to discern from our sessions is that you find this girl to be unattainable."

Jake rolled his eyes. "Of course she is."

Dr. Bevin smiled at the scrawny boy. He looked even smaller in the chair, which was meant to be a loveseat.

"What makes you say that, Jake?"

Again, Jake felt an uncontrollable urge to vomit words. "Look at me, Doc. I got these freckles all over my body that make me look like an outcast giraffe, I'm short, I'm an idiot, I've got two different colored eyes and, if all that wasn't enough, my entire existence outside of school is on the internet in the form of online RPGs and unrealistic porn."

Jake wasn't all too sure where the internet comment came from. Feeling like an idiot, Jake hung his head, the dull auburn rods of hair shooting into his eyes. "And I need a friggin' hair cut."

Dr. Bevin chuckled softly. Jake, pissed off but intrigued by the laugh, looked up through his curtain of hair at the psychaiatrist. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," said Dr. Bevin. "Now, Jake, do you know what a "compliment party" is?"

Shake shook his head, "No."

"Well, I'm going to invite you to something called a 'Compliment Party,' alright? Normally, in a Compliment Party, you'd have to tell me three good things about me and then I say three good things about you. But this is kind of a freebee, so instead tell me three things that you like about yourself. Then, I'm going to tell you three good things about you."

Jake's eyes darted around, "What, like right now?"

Dr. Bevin's gaunt face nodded, "Yes. Right now."

Jake sighed with distaste.

"Um…ok," he racked his brain, "I can cook a mean duck a l'orange."

Jake looked to Dr. Bevin, partly for inspiration and partly for approval. Dr. Bevin only nodded, indicating that he wanted Jake to continue.

"Um…Gran says that I read aloud pretty well. So I guess there's that…and…and I made it to Level 151 on WOW yesterday. I'm pretty proud of that."

"That's a good start, Jake," Dr. Bevin said. "Now, three things I like about you. You're acute attention to detail is remarkable and admirable. Your acting abilities – I saw you in A Winter's Tale. You are incredibly talented. And I would have to say your eyes. While most people are stuck with one color, you got two. It simply is unfair."

Jake, though distraught about the psychiatrist's discovery of his interest in theatre, felt oddly elated, "Woah. Thanks."

"Now, your unofficial assignment is to find at least two people every day until next week to have Compliment Parties with. We'll talk about your findings next week, so remember the answers."

"Alright," Jake said as he floated out of the chair, feeling wonderful, a welcome change.

"See you later, Doc."

"See you, Jake."

In 8th period, Jake dreamt of red heads. Lindsay Lohan, Christina Hendricks, Scarlett Johannsson in Iron Man 2 in that slinky leather outfit. The sound of dropping books pulled him from his reveries and fantasies. The hum of twenty or so voices buzzed around the room as everyone worked on a class project. Jake wiped his mouth with the back of sleeve. In a moment he couldn't believe was real, Jake locked eyes with Mallory Wagner. Her bright copper waves flowed down her back. She smiled at him, looking demurely over her shoulder.

Jake smiled back, looking goofier than he realized. After whispering and giggling with her friends, Mallory stood and approached Jake. He swore his heart would stop. Mallory pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

"Hey, Jake," Mallory spoke. Jake held back a sigh, her voice was like music.

"Jake," she said, "I don't know if you've ever done this before, but have you ever had a 'compliment party?'"

"Uh, yeah, I have actually," he answered.

She smiled, "Great. How about we have one now? I'll go first."

Before Jake could protest or agree, she began, "You're an amazing actor and I loved you in A Winter's Tale, and Once Upon a Mattress. "

Jake's head began to hurt, but he tried to ignore the throbbing as Mallory continued, "You're so mysterious. I see you around the school, but no one knows anything about you."

Jake heard the bell ring from some far-distant place.

Mallory lifted her hand and brushed his hair from his face, "And your eyes. So strange, so lovely."

Jake's head felt like it was on fire for a fleeting second. He felt something graze his shoulder. He sat up.

"Mallory," he said as he leaped from his seat, "Do you really think all those things about me?"

The classroom went silent.

Mallory sat with her friends again, her blue eyes darted from side to side in confusion, as if she hoped he was referring to some other Mallory.

"What?" she asked in confusion.

For some reason, Jake felt more confident than James Bond.

"I've always wanted to say that you are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Ever."

Mallory physically balked in disbelief.

"Thank you," she said, unsure of how to react.

"Second, you're knowledge of mathematics knows no bounds, and…and I wish I was as smart as you."

The last thing. What could he say? A thousand things came to his mind.

"I can't think of just three things I like about you, there's too much. But maybe I can narrow it down for tonight."

Jessica, the ring leader of Mallory's clique, looked offended, almost disgusted.

"Why?" Jessica asked, "What's tonight?"

"A date," Jake couldn't control himself as he strutted to Mallory and with all the finesse of Han Solo, he ran his hand through her hair.

"What do you say?"

"Um," Mallory stammered as Jake got closer to her, "That…that sounds great."

"Excellent. Be at my place around seven," Jake felt her breath on his lips. He looked into her bright blue eyes.

"I'm making you duck a l'orange."


	4. Chapter 3

_Please enjoy and help yourself to some refreshments.  
Reviews appreciated.  
L&M_

_(We own nothing recognizable)  
_

"Wake up, Dean," came Sam's voice from the edge of sleep. Dean felt a shove on his shoulder that forced his eyes to take charge and open. He was facing toward the wall of the motel room. He couldn't remember when he had fallen asleep. On the wall he saw the gargantuan shadow of his brother putting on a coat. Dean attempted to turn completely around, but the light from the window blinded him.

"What?" Dean growled in a sleepy voice rich with contempt.

"Someone else is dead," Sam said, with no emotion in his voice. Dean sat up, slightly concerned.

"Who now?"

"Dave Littleton, age forty three," Sam stated, "He was strangled last night, by his eighteen-year-old nephew, Kyle Jones."

Dean got up and pulled on his slacks.

"Let me guess," he said in a tired voice, "He went to Carsten High."

Sam smirked. "Bingo."

Dean nodded sleepily, rubbing his eyes. He looked around the room, his eyes adjusting when he noticed the immaculate state of Sam's bed. Not a crease in the sheets, not even the pillows were disturbed.

Dean's eyes lingered for a moment on this oddity.

"Dean?"

Pulled from his thoughts, Dean looked to his brother.

Sam ran his hands through his hair, the thick locks pushed back for a moment only to again fall in his face. "C'mon, let's get going," he said as he practically ran out the door.

"I'm moving as fast as I can, dude," Dean called to his brother. He had just finished buttoning his pants and awkwardly walked to the bathroom.

An electronic guitar riff startled him. On the bedside table, his phone rang. He didn't need to check the caller ID to know who it was.

He raced to his phone and answered.

"Lisa?"

"Dean," Lisa said, her voice simultaneously heavy with concern and taut with aggravation, "Where the hell are you?"

Dean sighed. He had known he would regret neglecting to tell Lisa where he was, but he doubted she would've received the news that he was hunting again any better, "I'm, uh, in Carsten."

A moment of confusion passed before Lisa asked, her voice sharp and interrogative, "What are you doing in Carsten?"

Dean was silent.

"Dean!" Sam yelled in the doorway, "You dressed yet?"

"Who was that?" Lisa asked, alarmed.

"Uh…that was . . . that was Sam?" Dean offered, not knowing what her reaction would be.

"Sam?" Lisa said, her agitation escalating, "Sam who?"

"Sam Winchester," Dean mumbled with a grimace.

"You're with Sam," Lisa stated, clarifying the deceptively complicated statement, "Sam, your dead brother Sam."

Dean gritted his teeth and replied, "Yeah."

"Dean, we gotta go," Sam commanded from the doorway, "Now."

"Listen, Lisa," Dean said, "I gotta go right now. We're hunting and I promise that I'll explain everything."

"Dean Winchester, I swear to God-,"

"Bye!" Dean said, maybe a tad to cheerily than he intended, and hung up the phone.

Dean turned to his giant brother, who looked extremely peppy despite the bags under his eyes. Sam's left eyebrow was lifted inquisitively, "Lisa?"

Dean finished buttoning up the white shirt that he put on as soon as he had hung up on Lisa. He gruffly responded with, "Yeah."

Sam grinned crookedly. Dean looked back up at his brother has he sat down and pulled some socks on. "What?" Dean asked.

"Nothing," Sam said happily. "Alright, c'mon, we gotta get to the crime scene now."

"Who are we today?" Dean asked, straightening his suit jacket.

"Agents Axel and Vaccarino with Mr. Littleton's insurance company," Sam said, "I'll be Vaccarino because, let's face it, no one would ever believe you're Italian."

After a moment of confusion, Dean looked up from tying his shoes and asked, "What the hell does that mean?"

Sam shrugged. "Get dressed, Axel."

"Shut up."

The scene was not as gruesome as Dean had anticipated: no blood. He followed Sam into the room where the victim's sister sat, rocking back and forth on the couch, her shoulders visibly shaking. Like clockwork, as if no time had passed at all, the Winchesters flashed their fake IDs to the officer at the door and strode confidently into the house.

Seating themselves on the sofa opposite of the traumatized woman, a look of sympathy crossing their faces, Sam and Dean began their questioning.

"Ma'am, can you tell us what happened?" Sam asked as he pulled out his pad and pen, ready to write any and all details this woman had to offer.

The woman looked up at Sam. Her short, blond hair was everywhere, sticking out at awkward angles, and was extremely frizzy. Bed head.

"What?" she said, her voice surprisingly steady considering the situation and the fact that the tremors in her shoulders were practically seismic, "For the fourth time?

"We're with Mr. Littleton's insurance company," Dean explained. "Please, ma'am, it would really help us if you could just tell us any details that you remember."

The woman stood up. She was taller than expected, almost as tall as Dean.

"Yes, that's fine. Julienne Jones," she said as she offered her hand.

An officer brought Julienne a cup of coffee from the kitchen and she grasped it with trembling fingers. Sitting back down, she began to recount the events of the last several hours.

"David, Dave, my brother. He'd been down on his luck lately, he'd lost his job and his wife left him. So I offered him a place to stay here."

"How long had he been living here?" Sam interjected suddenly.

Julienne thought for a moment, "Um . . . about two months or so. Not very long."

Sam scribbled something in his pad.

"Anyway, he had been living here with me and Kyle, my son. Dave had started . . . drinking, spending all his time at bars. Sometimes he would come home in a foul mood and it really bothered Kyle. He never, ever hurt us though. Dave wouldn't. He just . . . he just couldn't."

"I'm sorry?" Dean asked, unsure of the direction this conversation was going.

"Last night, Dave came home and passed out on the sofa in the family room. He was drunk, so I just let him be. Then I went to bed. And at about 4 o'clock this morning I hear the sound of glass shattering and screaming. I run downstairs and I see Kyle, with his hands around Dave's neck," Julienne started to lose her composure, "I begged Kyle to stop, but he said he couldn't let Dave hurt us again. And then Dave was dead."

"Miss, if your son was acting in self-defense against your brother, there really is no crime here," Sam explained.

"It wasn't self-defense, though," said with a shudder, "Kyle was hysterical, saying he saw what Dave had done to me. How he had hit me and cut me and how he had to stop him. But Dave never laid a hand on me."

Julienne rolled up the sleeves of her pajamas and showed them her forearms, unblemished and un-bruised. She pulled at the collar of her shirt and showed the unmarked skin of her neck.

"Dave never hurt me, never, but Kyle was so convinced that he had seen it happen. I didn't know what else to do, so I called the police," she concluded, hanging her head. Heavy stifled breaths made their way out of her throat as she tried once again to regain her composure.

Dean and Sam looked at each other, exchanging a knowing look.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Jones," Sam said as he stood, tucking his pad away.

Dean followed suit, "We are terribly sorry for your loss."

They quitted the house and walked down the street to the Impala.

"Any of this sound familiar, Dean?" Sam asked, almost smugly.

"No, not really," Dean replied dismissively.

"Oh, c'mon, Dean. Teenagers don't turn into killers overnight. Something weird is happening in this town."

At the police station, Sam and Dean sat in the waiting room, flipping through magazines, waiting for their chance to speak to Kyle.

"So," Sam said after a good five minutes.

Dean looked up from a Sports Illustrated that was at least seven years old, "So?"

"Have you thought about her at all?"

"Who?"

Sam looked to Dean, expectantly. Dean's mind drew a blank.

"C'mon, Dean. You know."

"No, Sammy, I really don't."

"Matt-," Sam began.

Dean quickly interrupted with a warning glare, "Don't say her name."

Sam smiled to himself, "So you have."

It was good to know that Sam still his brother better than anyone, even after a year apart.

Dean tossed the magazine aside, "Yeah, well, how about you? You thought about it at all, or do you still want to rip her angel wings off?"

Sam shrugged helplessly, "Dean, I never said-."

"You didn't have to, Sam," Dean snapped.

"You are still mad about that, aren't you?" Sam asked in disbelief, "You are still defending her."

"Maybe, but you don't know the whole story," Dean replied, acting disinterested in the conversation, knowing a statement like that would spark Sam's interest.

"What, and you do?"

Dean neglected to reply.

"You do?"

"I know _more_," Dean said with finality.

At that moment, the police officer approached the brothers and escorted them to the holding cell.

Inside, huddled on the cot, sat Kyle Jones. He hugged his knees against his chest and his empty brown eyes stared into the nothingness. The same vacant expression found on Nora's face rested on Kyle's. He had thick curly dark hair. He looked little like his mother, most likely getting his looks from his absent father. He was a tall, gangly sixteen year-old with a look of murder in his eyes.

The officer opened the door. Sam and dean stepped inside the small, barred enclosure.

"Kyle, I'm Detective Axel," Dean introduced himself and Sam, "This is Detective Vaccarino. We're from the Sheriff's department. We are here to ask you about what happened last night."

Kyle's eyes rolled listlessly to focus on Sam and Dean.

"What about it?"

"Well, why you did it would be a good place to start," Sam replied tersely.

Kyle scoffed in frustration, "I don't get why no one understands why. I've said why!"

"Well, we'd like to hear it from you, Kyle," Dean responded condescendingly. He was losing his patience with this case.

"Because he was hurting my mom!" Kyle nearly shouted at them.

"Hurting your mom, Kyle?" Sam questioned skeptically.

Kyle shrugged, "Yeah. I couldn't let him hurt her. After she had done so much for him, he repays her like that."

Kyle's fists clenched and unclenched, agitation etched in his face.

"Kyle, we spoke to your mother. She isn't hurt. The paramedics examined her and she doesn't have a mark on her. No one has hurt your mom, Kyle," Sam explained rather sharply. Dean looked at Sam out of the corner of his eye. Hearing Sam speak this way was foreign and unfamiliar. Dean could almost hear Sam's voice saying those very words, but in a manner meant to calm and coax, rather than antagonize and accuse.

Kyle looked up at Sam and Dean, hatred glowing in his eyes, "I know what I saw."

Sam and Dean walked towards the Impala, Kyle Jones's file in hand. Dean slid into the driver's side seat and Sam, forever assigned to the passenger's seat. Dean pulled out of the parking spot and sped along the street back to the motel as Sam flipped through the pages of file.

"He seems like a good kid," Sam said, perplexed.

"Yeah, they all do," Dean replied disinterestedly.

Sam shot Dean an unheeded look of irritation and then turned back to the file.

"Hang on. Here," Sam said, pointing to a page in the file, "Dr. Jeremy Bevin."

"Who?"

Sam rolled his eyes impatiently, "C'mon, Dean. The school shrink. It says here that Kyle had started visiting Dr. Bevin about five months ago when Mr. Walter Jones up and left."

Sam looked expectantly at Dean who, with a sigh of defeat, spun the steering wheel, altering their course as they headed back towards Carsten High.

They walked through the parking lot, Dean not hesitating to express his skepticism.

"Man, I don't know why we keep coming back here."

"Because, Dean, Dr. Bevin is the only thing that these two kids have in common. And they both end up murdering someone."

"You ever think, Sammy, that maybe they were seeing a shrink because they were off their rockers? There might not be anything supernatural here, but you seem hell bent on twisting the fact to make it so there is."

Dean really hadn't intended the argument to become so personal, and as they crossed the threshold into the school, Dean turned to apologize when they ran into the very man they were looking for.

"Detectives?" Dr. Bevin asked as he crossed their paths, "What you gentlemen doing here? Still wanting to know more about Nora?"

"No, actually, there was another murder last night," Sam said, glaring at Dr. Bevin, "A murder committed by another one of your student patients here at the school."

Dr. Bevin looked genuinely shocked.

"Oh, no. Who?"

"Kyle Jones," Dean said, the same suspicious condescension in his voice, "You know him?"

Dr. Bevin nodded, "Yes, I do. He started seeing a few months ago, after his father abandoned him and his mother. This is just tragic."

"And also coincidental," Sam added, "that two murders have been committed by your patients in the last week."

"Like I said, Detective, humans are capable of anything."

Dr. Bevin began to walk away, but Sam stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

"Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't it your job to figure out what is wrong with these people before they commit murders."

The paused for a moment while the school bell rang, releasing the students from class. Slowly, the halls were crawling with teenagers.

"Detectives, please, you must understand, these children aren't sent to me because they are demonstrating homicidal tendencies; they are sent to me because, like most teenagers, they are having a difficult time sorting out life. Sometimes I am able to reach out to and connect with these kids, other times I am not so successful. I am sorry, but—."

"But what, Doctor? Two people are dead," Sam replied, almost threateningly.

At that moment, Jake and Mallory walked by, hand in hand, laughing. With a loving look in her eyes, Mallory rested her head on Jake's shoulders.

"That young boy, for example. You met him the last time you were here. He was struggling with self-esteem, pining for the very girl you saw him with just now. And this morning, he comes in to my office to tell me they are dating. Now, is that such a tragic result of therapy?"

Dean shrugged, not convinced, "Well, so far, Doc, your record is one for three. That isn't exactly reassuring."

"Well, let me assure you, Detective, that the human mind cannot be confined to an exact science. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a patient who is seeing me after school today."

Without another parting word, Dr. Bevin left. Dean looked to Sam, who was practically fuming.

"Whoa. Easy, tiger. What's up with you?"

"That idiot won't take any responsibility," Sam said scathingly. Dean could've sworn that Sam had been wronged by a psychologist in a previous life.

"Yeah, and what can we do about it? Unless he is some shrink who is convincing his patients to murder, he isn't really responsible. And if he is, well, it's out of our hands."

Sam looked over at Dean. The dark crescents under his eyes were defined by the stern scowl on his face. Stifling a yawn, Sam left to return to the car.

Dean stood for a moment, unable to really move or think. Sam was acting uncharacteristically strange. Of course he would be. He had just served time in Hell. How normal could he really expect his brother to be? But it worried him. Sam was always the sharing and caring type, and now, he seemed to be going out of his way to make sure that no one knew how he felt.

Impulsively, not really knowing what else to do, Dean whipped his cell from his pocket and pressed number 2. Speed dial. Bobby.

The phone began to ring and Bobby answered with his compulsory gruffness.

"Yeah?"

"Bobby?"

"Dean? What's going on? I'm on a case."

Dean decided not to mince words and just say what he needed to.

"I'm worried about Sam."

"What do ya mean?"

"I mean, he's not himself, Bobby. I don't think he slept last night. And he's just . . . not Sam, not the Sam I know."

"Dean, I'm not really sure this is the best time to be—."

"Bobby, there is something wrong with him. I know it. He isn't Sam. I mean, he is _Sam_, but he isn't Sam."

Bobby remained quiet for a few moments.

"I wish I knew what to tell you, son."

"I'm just worried that his time . . . his time down there really messed him up, you know. To a point where he will never be the same."

"Give him time, Dean. That's all we can do now. Just give him time."

Dean didn't like the answer, but knew that the questions he had were difficult. He thanked Bobby and hung up. As Dean quit the building, he didn't notice the figure that had been lurking around the corner steal a look and watch him leave.


	5. Chapter 4

_She's baaaaack. Chapter Four.  
L&M_

_(We own nothing recognizable)  
Reviews appreciated. _

Sam and Dean sat on opposite sides of the table, flipping through the documents and files of the two murders. Reading and re-reading every report, every word and coming to the same conclusion: that there was no conclusion. Sam seemed determined to unearth whatever it was that he was sure was lurking in the pages of the reports, but Dean was about ready to throw in the towel.

He had an angry woman waiting for him at home and he was losing sleep over a complete bust of a case.

Dean rubbed his eyes wearily, waiting for them to fall back into focus and then looked at the clock. Two fifteen a.m.

"Sammy," Dean said as he stood, stretching, "Not that this hasn't been loads of fun, but I think I am gonna hit the sack."

Sam managed to pull himself away from the file for a moment to look up at his brother and nod, "Okay. I'll just stay up and keep looking."

Dean shrugged, kicked off his shoes, and fell onto his bed. Sam, picking up his soda can and realizing it was empty, left to get another from the machine outside. Dean's eyes had barely shut when Sam returned.

He slammed the door to the hotel room excessively hard and it shocked Dean awake. He looked over at Sam who was brooding over the files scattered on the table.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean called from the bed, propping himself up on an elbow, "Sammy, maybe you should get some shut eye, too."

"No," Sam voice, raspy and harsh, hissed back.

Dean felt apprehensive and reached underneath his pillow, feeling the cold metal of a gun against his fingertips.

"Sammy, are you alright?"

Sam, his eyes still on the files, snapped back, "I'd be alright if you would just leave me alone!"

Dean stood up and held the gun behind his back, ready to bring it forward and shoot if he needed to.

"Sammy?"

Sam looked up, his skin on his was raw and bruised, his eyes were black as tar and he cried tears of blood.

"See, Dean? Do you see what Hell did to me? LOOK AT ME!"

Dean suddenly felt a dizzy and the room began to become fuzzy and spin around him. When he regained focus, Sam was sitting at the table, a fresh soda in his hands. Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, the gun clenched in his hands.

Silently, Dean approached Sam at the table. With determination, he pulled the gun forward and aimed it at Sam.

"Sam?"

Sam flipped a page, finished his sentence and then looked up at his brother. The look on face transformed from intense thoughtfulness to absolute terror.

Sam sat back slowly in his chair. He held his hands up defensively.

"Dean. What are you doing?"

"Don't pretend anymore, Sam. I saw what you really are," Dean muttered, not about to believe this imposter.

"What I am? Dean, what do you mean? I am your brother," Sam cried out desperately.

"NO, YOU'RE NOT! I don't know what you are, but you are not him," Dean shouted back.

Dean cocked the gun and the sound was like thunder in Sam's ears. Sam slowly stood up, the barrel of Dean's gun following him as he did.

"Dean, I don't know why you are saying this, but I think you need to put the gun down. Now," Sam commanded, still fearing for himself.

"I want my brother back, you son of a bitch," Dean said, his hand flexing on the handle and trigger.

Sam could sense he only had moments left until Dean fired a shot. The maniacal look in Dean's eye was terrifying and unnatural. Dean never lost his cool. Ever. At that moment, Sam knew that something had happened to Dean in the mere minutes he had been gone. Something that could make Dean act like this. But he didn't know what.

In the few seconds of sheer panic before the bloodlust in Dean's eyes took complete control, Sam did something he himself never expected to do.

"MATTEA!"

With a bang, the door to their room in the motel shot open, nearly flying off its hinges and Mattea, purple cardigan and all, burst into the room. Not asking questions, she charged towards Dean and with remarkable ease, knocked the gun from his grip, sending it flying across the room.

Whatever had a hold of Dean, it wanted to fight. For as soon as Mattea was close enough to hit, Dean swung his fist at her. She ducked out of the way and grabbed Dean's arm, spinning around and twisting it behind his back.

"Sam, get out of here now," she commanded as she pushed Dean against the wall. Sam did as he was told and darted out of the room.

Dean snarled and cried out, screaming at Mattea that he had to kill whatever that thing was that was claiming to be Sam. He managed to break free and elbowed her across the face. In retaliation, she punched him in the jaw. The sound make a sickening crack and Dean was momentarily stunned. Taking advantage of his temporary docility, Mattea pushed him to the ground, sat on top of him, her knees holding his arms in place. He writhed and struggled, but underneath her angelic grip, Dean was rendered immobile.

Without an explanation, Mattea pressed her palms into Dean's chest. A white light emanated from her hands, but Dean's animosity grew still. She then grabbed a hold of Dean's head, pressing her palms into his temples, the same white light radiating from her hands.

The light nearly blinding him, Dean felt a sort of liquid heat spread through his head, and eventually filling every last corner of his body. He felt relaxed, woozy, and warm. He stopped struggling and let every muscle in his body go limp.

Mattea, seeing that Dean had been subdued, removed herself from her imprisoning position on his chest and sat down next to him. She placed a hand on his forehead and after a moment, he came to.

Dean's world was turning as he tried to sit up.

"Easy, tiger," Mattea said as he helped ease Dean back onto his feet. After blinking his eyes back into focus and rubbing the sore spot on his jaw, the fact that Mattea was in the room finally registered. He looked over at her, her eyes wide as she gripped his shoulders.

"Dean?"

"What the hell just happened?

Sam and Dean and Mattea sat around the table. Dean held ice wrapped in a cool cloth to his jaw, where Mattea had slugged him.

"This really hurts, you know," Dean said.

"You'll live," Mattea assured, though sarcastically.

"Yeah, you know, I thought you were supposed to protect us," Dean retorted.

"What do you call what I just did? You almost shot Sam, Dean," she replied, "I think a sore mandible is a small price to pay to prevent you from committing fratricide."

Dean looked at her like she just spoke Latin.

Sam, who had been mostly silent, finally spoke, "Thanks for coming, Mattea."

She looked warmly over at Sam and smiled, "I'm glad you called. But what I would really like to know is why I was needed at all. Dean?"

She looked pointedly at him from the across the table.

"What?"

"Tell us what happened."

Dean paused for a moment and at length, began.

"I was tired so I went to bed. As I was about to fall asleep, I heard Sam leave and then he came back. He slammed the door really loud and I woke up."

Mattea looked to Sam, "Did you slam the door?"

Sam shook his head, "No, I didn't."

"Well, I heard it and I woke up. I looked over to Sam and he was looking over the files. When I said I his name, he snapped at me. Only, he didn't sound like himself. I came closer and then he looked at me and he looked awful. He was bleeding and bruised and his eyes were black. You weren't human, Sammy. I thought I had to kill you."

"And after that?" Mattea prompted.

"The room started spinning and I felt dizzy. When I came to, I was sitting on the bed, with a gun in my hands. Sam looked normal, but I was so sure that he was whatever I had seen in my dream. I still thought I had to kill him. I knew I did. And then you came in and did something to my head and here we are now."

Sam looked at Dean with perplexity. He then looked to Mattea, hoping to find a similar look on her face, but instead he found a look understanding.

"Do you know what we are dealing with? It is something supernatural?" Sam asked.

"I do. And it is definitely something supernatural."

"What is it?" Dean pressed, anxious to know who or what had made him want to kill his brother.

Both brothers looked to their angel expectantly.

"It's a sandman."

Sam stifled a laugh.

"I'm sorry. A what?"

"A sandman. A dream-giver. You know what I am talking about."

"Yeah," Sam scoffed, "He has a song about him from the fifties. They aren't real."

Sam looked to Dean, "Are they?"

Dean was looking intently at Mattea; the expression on her face was anything but jocular.

"The lore says that the sandman brought dreams to children by sprinkling dust or sand in their eyes. In some German lore, the sandman was said to bring nightmares to naughty children, sprinkle dust in their eyes and upon waking, the children would scratch their eyes out. In reality, the sandman is kind of like a trickster, only without the malevolence. He is a god who brings dreams to people; people sort out problems in their dreams and the sandman helps them by bringing the unconscious to the surface of the mind. Only, it seems the sandman you are dealing with here is gone out of control, making the dreams so realistic and vivid that the dreamer can't tell the difference between reality and the dream."

Sam nodded in understanding. Dean stifled a laugh.

"What's so funny?" Sam asked.

"Dude, you were just out-encyclopedia-ed by an angel."

As Dean sniggered to himself, Mattea and Sam continued to discuss.

"So, that could explain the other two murders. Nora thought she saw her friend and boyfriend together, when really, it was just a dream. And Kyle thought he saw his uncle abusing his mom, but that was just a dream, too," Sam said, everything suddenly falling into place. Mattea nodded in agreement.

"Well, how does this sandman know these kids deepest, darkest thoughts and feelings?" Dean interjected.

Mattea started to explain, "Well, typically, a sandman will take the shape of someone that people easily open up to. That could be anyone from a bartender, a teacher, or—."

Sam and Dean interrupted, "A psychologist."

Realization dawned on Mattea's face, "The school shrink, Dr. Bevin."

"I think we found our sandman," Dean said triumphantly.


	6. Chapter 5

_Please turn off all cell phones and pagers. And please, no flash photography. Thank you._  
_Review appreciated._

_(We own nothing recognizable)_  
_L&M_

"You know, Mattea, we're big boys," said Sam as he glanced behind him at the back seat where the cardigan-ed angel sat, "We can do cases all by ourselves."

"Ah, yes," said Mattea in an admonishing tone, the morning sun glimmering in her obsidian eyes, "That would explain why I had to be called down to save the damsel in distress from big scary Dean."

Sam twisted around in his seat to go off on her, an insulted scowl on his face, as Dean chuckled profusely. Mattea sat with a smug smirk across her face and a playful look in her eyes. Her smile, Sam was almost surprised to find, left him feeling less insulted rather than more, and though he wouldn't admit it, almost flattered that she would banter with him or tease him. He smirked back at her and turned back toward the front.

"Not only can she out-encyclopedia you, she can insult you almost better than I can, Sammy!" Dean said, his boisterous laugh booming in the cabin of the car. His palm found its way to Sam's chest with a resounding thud. Sam grabbed his brother's arm with his large hands, his moment of personal victory starting to fade, knocked out of him by Dean's verbal and physical blow. Sam glared at his brother for a moment and let go.

After a moment of silence Dean asked, "Why are you tagging along?"

He looked at her through the rear view mirror. Dean endured a moment of silent shame when he realized the girl sitting in the back seat had effectively kicked his ass only hours before.

"Why not?" she said with a shrug, crossing her right leg over the other, making herself comfortable.

"I mean, working a case sounds like fun. I've seen you do it enough times. And considering you two geniuses didn't know what you were dealing with, well, I figure it can't hurt if I stick around."

"Your vote of confidence is just overwhelming, there, Mattea," Dean said with biting sarcasm, glaring at her through the mirror, "Really."

"I'm sure Sam would've figured it out . . . eventually," she replied, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, then back at Mattea, and then forward through the windshield, not sure how to respond.

Mattea smiled as she rolled her dark brown eyes.

The trio pulled into the parking lot of Carsten High School. In a sea of poorly maintained 90's Toyotas and brand spanking new Mazdas, the Impala stuck like a sore thumb. Dean looked at the building with loathing as he stepped out of the car. It was almost unnatural, to hear three doors slam shut instead of just the two. Dean looked to his two companions. Sam adjusted his suit jacket as he walked with Dean towards the school. And Mattea, dressed in her cardigan and jeans, easily keeping in stride with Sam and Dean.

Her attitude almost surprised them. She was serious. She meant business. They were confident that she hadn't a clue in the world as to what she was doing, and they were right in thinking so, but she was fearless. She strode alongside Sam and Dean with an air of determination that even they had to admire. It baffled them, to see such a youthful, harmless, innocent exterior in direct opposition with the warrior that lay inside. But then, she was angel, a guardian angel, and realized it was foolish to expect any less.

Once inside the school, Sam and Dean flashed their badges at the security officer and made their way along the long white hallways. Mattea's purple cardigan stood out in the stark emptiness of the hallway. Her walk was brisk and she moved more quickly than Sam and Dean did, despite her relative shortness.

The click of her black flats resonated against the linoleum floors, echoed by the louder thump of Sam and Dean's dress shoes behind her. When Sam and Dean got to Dr. Bevin's door, they saw, with some exasperation, that Mattea had walked right past the door without so much as a glance.

"Mattea," said Dean in a gruff, low voice. She stopped and looked back at the Winchesters, her copious brown curls flipping back at them. She tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes questioningly at the two men.

With a flick of his fingers, Dean beckoned Mattea back to the door.

"Ah, right," she said after a moment when she had realized her mistake and walked swiftly back to their side. Sam pursed his lips and skeptically raised an eyebrow at her. She shook her head and shrugged.

Dean, shooting a warning glance at Mattea and Sam, who instantly composed themselves, knocked on the door of Dr Bevin's office.

"Coming!" a voice came from inside. Seconds later, the door opened.

"Yes, Detectives?" Dr. Bevin said in a cheery voice. His eyes moved between Sam to Dean, and after a moment, realized the extra body.

"You are?" the psychologist asked politely, adjusting his glasses, gazing unnervingly at Mattea.

Dean, always the best improviser, was the first to answer, "She's . . . uh, shadowing us today."

"Uh, yes," Mattea agreed forcefully as she glanced at Dean, "I've always wanted to be a part of the FBI."

"We're detectives," corrected Sam with an impatient sigh.

"Right, detectives," Mattea hurriedly amended, "I've always wanted to be part of the detective . . . agency."

She paused for a moment, her eyes became distant. She doubted her response and tried searching her brain for something better. After a moment, though, she looked back at the doctor with a reaffirming smile.

"The point is that she's with us," Dean offered, trying to salvage the already tensile cover that the socially awkward angel had nearly ruined. It was as bad as working a job with Cas.

"Yes, I'm with them," Mattea confirmed.

Bevin gazed at Mattea out of the corner of his eyes, "Right," he said, obviously not convinced, "What is it, detectives? I'm in the middle-,"

"You need to cut the crap," Sam said abruptly. "We know what's going on here, _Doctor_."

Even Dean was taken aback by his brother's harsh tone. Bevin blinked at Sam. "Excuse me?"

"We know what you're doing," continued Sam in a dark voice, "And if you don't stop, don't think we won't do it for you."

Bevin was silent for a moment. "I've never given illegal substances to any of my patients—."

"This isn't about your dealings with drugs, Doctor," Dean interrupted, "It's about the dreams. And what you do to them."

Bevin blinked calculatedly. His eyebrows furrowed. He glanced across the faces of the Winchesters and their Guardian.

"Tim, you'll have to excuse me for a moment," he called back into his office, without taking his eyes off of Sam and Dean.

A reply never came from within. Bevin stepped out of the doorway and shut his office door.

"So, what are you going to do to me?" Bevin asked his accusers threateningly, "Stab me with a knife? Shoot me? Who are you, anyway?"

He turned to face Mattea, his eyes accusing, "And are you really shadowing them? You look about seventeen."

Despite his comment, Mattea did not waver. Her face remained hard and unfeeling.

"She's none of your concern, Doctor," Dean said gruffly.

"Look, I get that you're upset that a few of my patients reacted strangely to my sand, but this has never happened before," said Bevin, his voice pleading with them, "I usually give them enough to put them to sleep and have a vivid enough dream for me to-,"

"Get off?" interrupted Sam. Dean glanced at his brother incredulously. Mattea did the same.

"Stay alive," Bevin corrected. He inhaled deeply as he explained, "I'm just a humble creature eating my fill of emotions here. High schools are excellent feeding ground, but since last year I've had . . . issues."

He looked expectantly at Sam. "You know what? I'm tired of moving around because someone wakes from a stupor and commits a crime."

"You've had two murders here," Dean said, "I think that's enough incentive."

"No," Bevin said assertively.

"What?" Dean asked out of shock more than anything.

"No," Bevin repeated, "I'm not going anywhere. I like it here. Nice place to raise a family. "

Dean's ears perked up. Family. Ben and Lisa. Damn.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Tim and I need to discuss what's been troubling him lately. I actually do have a degree and the proper training to help people. And you three aren't going to stop me from doing so," Bevin's departing words were spoken with bitter contempt.

Sam eyed Bevin up and down, looking at him like a slimy criminal, "Fine. Just remember that you brought this on yourself," he threatened, the true meaning weighing on each word. As if on cue, everyone left the circle they'd been standing in: Bevin opened the door to his office and slipped back inside while the Winchester posse walked back toward the entrance of the school.

Sam thought on the past few moments and felt utterly baffled. He couldn't recall where such harsh words had come from, where such hatred could have planted itself inside of him. But Bevin was a monster, there was no denying that. He had caused the deaths of innocent people. Still, Sam couldn't ignore the thought tugging at the back of his mind: he felt kind of bad for the guy. Having powers he could not control, being tired of running; Sam could relate.

Dean and Mattea's thoughts were not so heavily occupied. They were, however, thinking the exact same thing: how in the hell do you kill a sandman?

"Sorry about that, Tim," said Bevin as he came back into his office, "Just some detectives following up on the murders."

Tim said nothing. He only stared.

"Now, this is your first visit, yes?" Bevin asked, picking up Tim's file. The question was rhetorical, so Tim didn't answer.

Bevin sighed as he flipped through the pages. It was fraught with the notes of multiple therapists and doctors all saying the same thing: Tim was suffering from long-term depression. He'd seen depressed kids like this before. In the past, he could have helped them. Dreams of just enough heightened emotion that he would have been fine within three months. No pills necessary.

"Alright, I'm going to suggest that you get some anti-depressants. Just take one a day before breakfast and come see me twice a week. Does Tuesday and Thursday at 8:45 sound good?"

Tim gave a barely noticeable nod.

Poor kid. He was going to die before the day was out.

Back at the motel, Sam pounded relentlessly on the keys of his laptop, scrounging for something, anything on Sandman lore. He kept coming up with nothing.

Dean was staring at his phone, debating whether he should call Lisa or not.

Sam glanced up at his brother and smirked, "You gonna stare at that phone all day?"

"Shut up," Dean shot back at Sam, "This is all your fault, anyway."

Sam gave Dean a knowing sideways smile.

"Really?" he asked, unconvinced, "My fault?"

"Yes, your fault," Dean spat, "If it weren't for you, I'd be back in Huntsville, happy as a clam, and Lisa wouldn't be mad at-."

Dean was interrupted by Sam's laughter, "Is something funny to you?"

"No, no," Sam said in between chuckles, "It's just . . . look at you, Mr. Family Man."

Dean shrugged off his comment.

"You got a job, right?"

"Yeah."

"Doing what?"

"Construction."

"What?" Sam said, surprised, "Not a mechanic?"

"Yeah," Dean smiled, "Turns out I can only work on cars made before 1985. The rest of them," he whistled and slid his hand through the air over his head, "What about you? Hunting?"

"Yeah. It's weird, you know? Hunting by myself this time," Sam got up and walked over the fridge.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked.

Sam grabbed a beer from inside the fridge and twisted it open, "Well, the last times I've hunted without you, it was out of revenge or spite," he took a swig of the cold beer, "Like when you went to Hell, or when the Gabriel killed you: I was hunting to get you back. This time . . . I'm hunting because I want to."

"Because _you_ want to?" Dean raised an eyebrow in suspicion, "Never thought I'd hear that. Not from you."

"Yeah," Sam said, amazed with his own answer, "And I'm getting better at it. I can sense things now."

Before Dean could ask what he meant, Mattea popped in with a flutter of wings with two enormous books in her hands.

"Where have you been?" Dean asked. He sniffed his nose. She smelled odd, musky and dusty. Old.

"The Library of Congress," she said plainly as she placed her books on the table.

"Doing a little light reading?" Dean asked cynically, as he got up from his chair and snapped his phone shut.

"Research," Mattea stated as she flipped open the book against the table with a thud and starting thumbing through the pages, "I've found ways to kill a sandman. I was hoping I could double check my research with yours."

Sam sighed with defeat, "Well, I haven't found anything."

Mattea glanced at Dean, "I assume you have not found anything either?"

Dean shrugged, as if this very fact was entirely out of his control.

"Predictable," said Mattea with a disapproving shake of her head.

"Hey!"

"It's not an insult," Mattea said as she searched through the pages of her books, "Just an observation."

Dean raised his eyebrows at her and looked pointedly at Sam.

"Here it is," she exclaimed, pointing at the smaller of the two books, "One kills a sandman by stabbing it in the head through the eye sockets."

She looked up expectantly at Sam and Dean with a smile on her face. They stared at her with a quizzical expression on their faces.

They were all silent for a few seconds before Sam demanded to see the book and read it for himself, only to be more confused when he began to read.

"What language is this?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"Xixia," Mattea said matter-of-factly.

Sam glared down at her. "What the hell is that?"

"It's from Central Asia. There are thousands of texts on hundreds of subjects, but no one can read them," she explained, "No one, of course, except guardians . . . and other angels, too."

"Of course," Dean muttered to himself.

"It's an extinct language," Mattea concluded, choosing to ignore Dean's remark.

Sam nodded his head as if to agree, but the look in his eyes stayed very skeptical.

"This is uh . . . very interesting, Mattea," Sam said, his emotions ranging from bewilderment to frustration. Needless to say, he couldn't make heads or tails of any of the information she had brought to them.

"Isn't it?" she said, her eyes brightening up a bit, "It's really quite beautiful, if you look at it. A mixture of Chinese script, but with the speech patterns of Mongolian—."

"Mattea," Dean interrupted. She stopped and turned her head toward the elder Winchester, her eyes wide and questioning, "Too much information."

She nodded apologetically, "Right. Sorry. I tend to get carried away."

Sam handed the book back to her.

"So," he said, "we have to stab it in the head?"

"Yes."

"Through the eyes?" Dean added.

"Yes," Mattea answered.

"Both of them?" Sam inquired from her other side.

"Yes."

"At the same time?" Dean asked.

"No—well, actually," Mattea started to answer before she suddenly stopped herself, burying her nose in the Xixia book. Her eyes scanned the pages quickly and turned to the next page. She was silent for five seconds.

"Yes," she replied at length, her answer spoke with conviction, "With iron stakes."'

Dean cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brow, "So, we gotta stab this guy in the face before anyone else in this town goes to sleep," he surmised, "Well, we can't well stab him at a school in front of kids."

"We also need to warn anyone who had an appointment with him today," Sam insisted.

Without warning, Mattea grabbed both of them on the shoulder and transported them to Bevin's office.

When they landed, Dean and Sam felt lightheaded.

"What the hell, Mattea?" Dean started to shout at her, before he realized the need for discretion, "I don't even have shoes on!"

"We don't have much time."

Sam shook off his queasiness and found Bevin's date book, "What time is it, three o'clock?"

"Yes," Mattea said, "But disaster can strike at any time, Sam. The time of day has nothing to do with anything."

"I'm trying to figure out where Bevin would normally be right now," Sam said aggressively.

Mattea quickly moved to another cabinet. "Who had appointments today?"

"Um, just some kid named Timothy Lachlan."

Mattea pulled open the lock with ease and pulled the file drawer open. Dean's body jumped slightly at the sound of the lock breaking from the inside and the slam of the opening file drawer. Mattea scanned the tan envelopes for "L" and pulled it out.

"Lachlan, Timothy," she read aloud and opened the file. She skimmed the contents. She looked extremely perturbed before she turned her gaze to Sam and Dean.

"I'll be right back," she said and without a word vanished.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, in total shock of the situation. She was so efficient, it was intimidating. So they just stood and stared at each other.

Mattea reappeared not four seconds later with Dean's shoes and two iron stakes.

"What the-?" Dean said in surprise. Mattea handed Dean his shoes.

"Thanks," he added, ambivalent about what was going on.

"Put them on. Quickly," Mattea commanded.

Dean grabbed his shoes, daunted by her presence.

She quickly walked over to Sam. "Here," she said as she handed Sam the stakes, "take these."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"To protect yourself, and to kill the sandman, if you can."

"What?" he asked as he took the stakes from her.

"He's coming in now, to get his things. I'll be back."

"Wait," Sam shouted, "Where are you going?"

Mattea grabbed Dean's arm and said, "To save Timothy Lachlan."


	7. Chapter 6

_Another chapter! Huzzah!  
Review. Or, you know, don't. It's a free country.  
L&M_

(We own nothing recognizable)

Dean's insides were churning like nobody's business. He'd never been man handled by an angel so much in such short of a time. He thought he'd gotten used to it before and during the Apocalypse, but Mattea's determination help to send his stomach on a whirlwind of movement.

They touched down in front of an apartment door. Mattea knocked on the door.

"They're not answering," she stated matter-of-factly after a few seconds. She looked up at Dean, her bright russet eyes shining inquisitively up at Dean, "What now?"

Despite his queasiness, Dean managed to give the Guardian a look of disgust before kicking the door open.

Mattea's mouth dropped open in shock, astonished by what Dean had done.

"Oh," she said as she nodded her head. Dean rolled his eyes and charged into the house.

"I can't believe you actually do that," Mattea called after him, "Like, on a daily basis."

"Mattea," Dean interrupted, "This is hardly the time."

"Right," she answered, "We're saving someone."

Sam was caught off guard. Mattea had just dematerialized with and he had mere seconds to collect himself before he heard Bevin unlocking the door to the office. Brushing off his aggravation, (he had only been given all of half a second to prepare to kill the sandman), Sam readied himself.

_Think fast, Sam_, he thought as he twirled the stakes in his hands like he was a gunslinger from an old TV Western. His head cocked to the right involuntarily as Bevin opened the door.

Bevin's eyes landed on Sam's large figure first, then drifted down to the iron spikes in his gargantuan hands, and shot back up to his hard face. Fear and anger spread like wildfire across the face of the sandman before, all at once, Bevin disappeared.

Sam was confused as to what had just happened. Could a sandman, for lack of a better word, teleport? He spun around to check his back—nothing. Instantly, Sam felt it. A presence, light and granulated.

"Oh, Sam," Bevin's voice resonated in Sam's ears, mockingly. Sam felt the muscles in his shoulders tense. He looked from side to side, searching the room for a body, "I don't know why we can't just be friends."

"Maybe because you've been killing people? Innocent people?" Sam answered back. He always hated this part of the fight, when the creature started talking to him, trying to weasel its way out of the situation. Maybe because he was always so willing to listen.

"I'm not killing anyone, Sam," Bevin continued, his voice coming from Sam's left, "I'm merely doing what I have to do to survive. Sometimes, it ends badly. "

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, if for no other reason than because he needed to be fully aware of Bevin's elusive presence. He sensed it, for only a fleeting moment. When he was sure he would hit his target, he swung his arms into the air and hit…

Nothing.

"Damn it," Sam exasperated before being picked up and thrown across by the invisible force he'd been only just able to detect.

"You think you're so clever, Sam Winchester?" the disembodied voice echoed in the small room, "You think you're stronger than me?"

"No," Sam said, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth, "Just smarter."

He heard the sandman growl. Sam knew he had the upper hand, even though he was the one prone on the floor, blood dripping from his mouth.

"You aren't going to hurt anyone else, Sandman," Sam called out, "You can't even keep your office safe."

The room went totally silent for a moment. Then, the sound of the sandman's voice filled the room.

"How did you get in here, when everything is locked?"

Sam gave a cocky smile. And then he received a punch in the stomach.

"Tim?" Dean called, trying to find his way around the unnaturally clean apartment. He was surrounded by white walls, white furniture, white rugs; he was almost too cautious as he stepped on the eggshell white floors.

"Tim!" he called again, louder this time. He practically ran down a hall, following the sound of running water and loud classical music.

"Timothy!" Mattea called, following Dean down the hallway. There was an odd bounce in her step, like she was excited about such a perilous situation.

At the end of the hallway was a door. As soon as Dean approached it, he banged hard on the door. "Tim! It's the police, open up!"

Silence.

"God damn it," Dean muttered. He observed the door. The hinges opened outward. He wasn't going to be able to kick down the door. Instead, he just kicked it with enough force to send a jolt of tingling pain shooting up his leg.

"Step aside, Dean," Mattea calmly ordered. For some reason, Dean immediately obeyed her orders, moved deftly past her to stand behind and secure himself from injury. She was probably going to kick down the door and kill the kid, he thought.

Instead, she ripped the three hinges off the door as if she were ripping paper. She turned the door handle with such a force that Dean actually heard the lock snap and break inside. And with that, she picked up the door and placed it against a wall.

Dean was amazed, but couldn't stop. Tim needed to be saved from whatever he was doing.

As Dean stepped into the bathroom, he saw Tim, lying listlessly on the floor, innumerable small slices in his skin oozing with blood, leeching out of his flesh onto the floor.

"Mattea, you gotta fix him," Dean ordered.

Mattea did nothing. Dean turned back to the angel and raised his eyebrows, frustrated. "Look, I get that sometimes you're not good under pressure, but—."

"Dean, I can't heal him," she said abruptly.

Dean blinked, "Excuse me?"

"He's not mine to save. I only came with you to make sure he wouldn't attack."

She turned to leave.

"Wait, what do I do now?" Dean cried, exasperated, "And where the hell are you going?"

"Save him. Keep him alive," she said cryptically, but with the utmost seriousness before disappearing.

Dean turned back to the kid, who was bleeding out fast. It took Dean a moment to go into protective mode.

"Tim? I'm Dean. I'm gonna help you."

"Please," came Tim's strained voice, "Let me die."

Dean suddenly felt a strange hollow feeling deep in his chest. He swallowed hard and held back anything that might inhibit his ability to do what Mattea had told him to. But, Dean couldn't deny he'd felt this way more than once in his life.

"No," Dean said as he grabbed towels, toilet paper—anything he could find to wrap the kid up and stop the bleeding, "You will not die. Not on my watch you won't."

Sam was surprised by just how much force Bevin was able to throw a full grown man. "Damn, you're strong," Sam mumbled before mockingly asking, "Do you work out?"

He was picked up again and thrown back first onto the ceiling. He let out a small cry of pain, a knee-jerk reaction to the hard surface of the ceiling.

As he struggled, he realized that he'd dropped the iron daggers when Bevin catapulted him to the ceiling, which he was now being pushed through. He punched and kicked at the invisible sandman, trying to break free. The thing was much stronger and a lot sneakier than he anticipated.

This was going to have to go in his journal.

After being thrown repeatedly against the ceiling for about thirty seconds, Sam felt another presence. Warm and smelling of lavender and salt.

"Put him down now," Mattea's voice floated in the air with a commanding serenity.

"Or what?" the sandman asked. "Are you going to take me down, intern?"

In an instant, Sam was on the ground and on the other side of the room, lying on his stomach. By the time he was able to turn his head around, Mattea had grabbed the stakes and stabbed the sandman through the eye sockets. Her hands gripped the rods of iron even as they were held fast in the skull of the Sandman. And her face.

The look on Mattea's face was similar to the one she had when she was healing Dean, only this time there was a fire in her eyes that was frightening. He'd seen angels kill numerous times, killing demons, monsters, humans, even their own kin; never had he seen them actually take a life with any sort of visible emotion. In Mattea, Sam saw the need to protect him, the passion of her duty, and the anger toward the sandman and the threat he posed to all she held dear.

In all his years of being alive, of being a hunter, he'd never seen anything as terrifying as Mattea. And he was glad she was on his side.

As they watched the paramedics carry Tim, secured to a stretcher, from the apartment building to the ambulance, Dean couldn't deny the sense of satisfaction he felt. This sensation didn't come from the fact that _he_ had saved a life, but rather that he had _saved_ a life. He had done that which he had done so many times before, an otherwise thankless task. But to see Timothy Lachlan alive was thanks enough.

Across the street, as he leaned against the door of the Impala, Mattea to his left and Sam to right, this welcome feeling began to wane as he slowly realized this was only temporary. He had never intended to hunt, again. Ever. But, no matter how hard he fought it, it always found to a way to call him back.

The ambulance siren began to wail, its blue and red lights flashing, as it sped down the street carrying Timothy to the hospital. Three sets of eyes followed the white van until it disappeared around a corner.

"So," Mattea began, "What do you think people will say when they find the corpse of Dr. Bevin in his ransacked office with two iron stakes sticking out of his eyes sockets?"

Sam and Dean looked at her quizzically. She merely shrugged, "I'm just curious."

"Honestly," Dean said with a small laugh, "We've never really thought about what happens to the things we will after we kill them. It's always about the people we save."

Mattea seemed satisfied with his answer.

"Well, boys," she said stepping away from the car, into the street, turning to face them both, "I hope you don't mind, but I think I'd better go."

Dean only nodded and mumbled, "Do what you gotta do."

Sam was less than willing to bid her such a hasty farewell, "Go? What do you mean, go?"

"I have to leave, Sam," Mattea replied, unsure of the root of his objections.

"So, you're just gonna take off, then?" Sam barked at her, his dormant hostility towards her resurfacing. Sam was more than willing to credit the success of the case to her and she was just going to leave.

"What would have me do? Stay here and get caught?" she retorted, throwing her hands into the air, exasperated, "Yeah, that would sure help you two out."

"Get caught? What do you mean?" Sam asked, unprepared for such a response on her part.

Mattea looked pointedly at Dean, "You didn't tell him?"

"What, that's my responsibility?" Dean protested, turning to face her fully, ready to defend himself against accusation she might throw at him.

"He's _your_ brother!" Mattea argued back.

"And I'm not here to do your dirty work," Dean growled, irritated.

"Tell me what?" Sam cried out, frustration manifesting in his voice.

Dean and Mattea glared at one another for a long moment before Dean turned to Sam, his eyes lingering on the incensed angel, and with deliberate contempt, said, "That we have ourselves a fugitive."

Sam looked to Mattea in shock, fury smoldering in her eyes.

"That's right, Sammy. Mattea here is an angel on the lam. I don't know what she did, but boy, she must've pissed off someone important upstairs," Dean continued, knowing his words would aggravate her more.

"How dare you," Mattea suddenly spoke, her voice low and venomous.

It seemed the whole world went silent and Dean instantly regretted his words, knowing that what he said he had hit the most sensitive nerve.

She closed the space between them, her face inches from his. Dean wanted to step away, but was frozen to the spot. It wasn't fear that held him, though. As he looked down on her, in her dark eyes he didn't see anger or hatred, but pain. Unbearable pain. It was undeniable, having seen the same expression so many times in his bathroom mirror.

"What do you know about it?" she hissed, her voice taut with resentment and rage, "Nothing."

Dean found himself wanting to ask her what it was he didn't know, but he knew well enough that now was not the time.

Sam's curiosity could not be quelled and his voice broke the dense silence, "Mattea, what happened?"

Her eyes were suddenly downcast and she stepped away from Dean.

"I've already been here too long," Mattea whispered, her voice hoarse and emotionless.

Before she could disappear and vanish until who knew when, Sam reached out and grabbed her hand. He held it fast, not letting go.

"Mattea," Sam said softly, "We only want to help."

Still fuming, Mattea debated whether or not to stay, whether or not she owed them any sort of explanation. She pulled her hand from Sam's grasp and took another step back. She sighed.

Sam and Dean held their breaths, waiting for her to vanish in a flutter of wings. But she stayed. She stood before them, still fuming. Ultimately, she realized that she couldn't keep them in the dark forever. She had thought about what she would say to them for nearly three decades, but now, when it came down to it, she couldn't find the words.

"Mattea," Sam said, "Look, I don't know what happened to you. But whatever it was, I'm sure you didn't deserve it."

"I was in prison," Mattea said, almost too quietly to hear.

"Prison?"

"Why?" Dean couldn't help but ask.

"I was accused of something I didn't do."

"What?" Dean asked before he could stop himself. Sam shot his brother a disapproving look.

Mattea only shook her head, quietly letting them know that she would not answer his question. Not now.

And then, she was gone.


	8. Chapter 7

_The last chapter of Episode 2. What a journey it has been. Enjoy._  
_L&M_

_(We own nothing recognizable)_

"So," Sam began as he and Dean walked out of the motel and to their cars, "You're just gonna go home?"

Dean sighed heavily.

"Yeah, I guess," he answered, unsure if really wanted to go back. He couldn't think like that, he knew he couldn't. After a moment, he nodded resolutely, "Yes, I'm going back. I'll call you up sometime, alright?"

"Dean," Sam said as he stopped at his car, a blue 2008 Mustang, "You can't keep running from this." With a blip and a small click, the trunk popped open.

"What?" Dean asked.

"This life," Sam dropped his duffel into the trunk. Dean noticed there were no secret compartments for the illegal firearms, "You're always going to be a hunter. No matter how much you want that apple pie life."

Dean felt weird, like he was experiencing déjà vu for the hundredth time. He shook his head, "Look Sam, thanks for the conversion speech, but I'll pass."

Sam sighed and shut the trunk, "Just…just call me if you change your mind, alright?"

Dean nodded and before he stepped into the Impala, turned to his brother, "See you around, Sammy."

"See you around."

At 7:47, Dean pulled up to his house in Huntsville, Indiana and prepared for the worst. He was going to get it. He'd just up and left without saying a word and didn't tell her where he was. Hell, he didn't even tell her that Sam was back. But how could Dean knew that she wasn't particularly fond of the whole hunting lifestyle, and having Sam back in the picture was like a draft, calling Dean back to duty whether or not he was willing.

It didn't help that he hadn't told _anyone _that he was leaving. His job at Perdit Brothers Construction was probably out the window, since he hadn't called in to tell Jake that he had some horrible fake illness. He didn't really care about that, though. Lisa was going to be livid.

At 7:49, he walked through the front door of 232 Willis Drive. No one was in the front hall. He put his keys on the table to his left.

"Lisa?" he called into the house, surprised at how high his voice got, as if it was trying to mask his culpability with innocence, "Ben?"

"Dean?" Ben's voice came from upstairs. Over the railing on the second floor, a head of short black hair popped out.

"Hey there, kiddo," Dean said with a guilty smile, "Is your mom here?"

"Where the hell have you been?" Ben demanded with a stern look on his face that Dean had only seen on the kid's mother.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again in confusion. He'd taught the boy well.

"Are you talking back to me?" Dean asked, genuinely more confused than mad.

"Yes I am, douche lord," Ben spat as he came down stairs, "You don't walk out on me and mom and think that there will not be a verbal beat down."

Dean's head involuntarily twitched as the twelve year old sized him up.

"Sorry, man, I had a job," Dean defended.

"A job?"

Dean looked up at the top of the stairs to see Lisa, arms crossed and looking very intimidating.

"You went hunting with your undead brother and that's a 'job'?" Lisa continued.

Dean looked at Ben, who was clearly still very angry.

"Look, I'm sorry—," Dean began.

"That you didn't call?" Lisa interrupted as she calmly descended the stairs, "That you up and left without so much a word?"

She was silent as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Well?" she prompted,"Are you gonna say something?"

"Listen," Dean stumbled, "I can explain."

"Then get to it," Ben shot.

"Ben," Lisa turned to her son, who was now above her shoulder height, "Me and Dean are going to talk about this alone, 'kay?"

"I'm part of this family, too," Ben protested, "I should be able to yell at him, too!"

"Ben, either go do something else out of ear shot or you're going to your room without a phone."

Ben stared at his mom as if such a request was incomprehensible and then glared at Dean before backing away into the kitchen.

Once Ben had left the immediate vicinity, Dean said, "Look, Sam called and I had to—."

"Oh, yeah. When were you planning on sharing that little development? That Sam was alive?" Lisa practically yelled, "Didn't he swan dive into the pit to avert the whole 'end-of-the-world' thing?"

"Yeah, well he's back now," Dean said desperately. He knew how to explain, but the circumstance was just too ludicrous to believe, "And has been for about six months."

"Six months?" Lisa said, stunned, "You've known he's been back six months and you've only just gone now?"

Dean shook his head as he inhaled sharply, "Nah, I've only known about him being back for about a week."

"Oh," Lisa said, letting her arms fall to her sides, unprepared for that particular answer.

"And what do you mean 'only just gone now'?" Dean asked defensively.

Lisa was quiet for a moment.

"Dean," she began, her voice defeated, "I know who you are. And I know you know who you are, but I think you've forgotten."

Dean furrowed his brows at her, confused at the turn of events, "What are you talking about?"

"You're a hunter, Dean!" she exclaimed, as if it was obvious, "That's what you were and that's what you'll be until the day you die!"

Dean was silent.

Lisa felt a little guilty for silencing the great mouthpiece that was Dean Winchester, but at the same time found the entire situation frustrating. Taking a few deep breaths, she took a moment to calm herself.

"Look, Dean," she said, the harshness gone from her voice, "You've been a wonderful partner to me and a great father to Ben, but that's not you."

Dean looked offended.

"That's totally me, Lis," he protested urgently.

She only shook her head.

"Who you are here," she gestured to the house, "is different who from you are out there," she motioned to the outside, "I understand that you have this…need to save people. I get it; I do, but that bad ass Dean Winchester can't live in suburbia."

Dean blinked. Was she breaking up with him?

"You and Sam had, and apparently have, this co-dependent relationship. So go with him," Lisa said, her voice pained, "And, if you have the time, come back. Even if it's only for a little while."

"You want me to leave?"

"No, I don't want you to leave. Of course I don't. _You_ need to leave. Save people, hunt things," she reached out to him and lightly took hold of his hands, "The family business."

Dean couldn't help but smile. What she said struck such a strong chord, it resonated in his body and soul He looked into her beautiful face. Her eyes said it all: Go, Dean, before I change my mind.

He pulled her close and their lips crashed into a sweet good-bye kiss.

"Ugh, gross." Dean broke away from Lisa to look at Ben, who had reappeared with a sandwich. Dean shook his head.

"So, you're leaving again?" Ben asked, "To fight stuff?"

"Yeah."

Ben looked stoically at Dean for a long moment before smiling, "Go kill as many evil sons of bitches as you can, Dean."

"Language," Dean and Lisa said on instinct. Ben shrugged and took a bite out of his sandwich.

"Take care of your mom for me, kay?" Dean requested, the words coming out more much seriously than he had intended.

"Hey, I was doing that long before you showed up," Ben bantered, his mouth full of food, "Now get out before she changes her mind or you start crying or something."

Dean pulled both Ben and Lisa into a giant bear hug before he grabbed his keys, "I'll call you guys. I will."

"You'd better," threatened Lisa playfully.

Dean smiled.

"Do you need your clothes?" she asked.

"I've got everything I need in that car," he said. He paused a moment and looked at Lisa and Ben, knowing how much he owed them both and how he would never be able to pay them back, "Thanks. For everything."

"Don't mention it," Ben retorted with his pre-teen attitude. His ubiquitous insolence vanished for a moment and he looked seriously at Dean.

"Be safe," he entreated.

"You too."

Dean waltzed out the door, thinking about how he'd walked into that situation thinking the worst would happen and how everything turned out better than expected. Dean got his phone out and began to dial his brother's number. It rang in his ear once. Then he heard a classic telephone ring just in front of him. He looked up at his car.

There stood his brother, his gargantuan, alive brother. Sam's smile said everything: he knew exactly what would go down at the Braeden-Winchester household. Dean didn't have to explain. He didn't have to say anything. Dean just walked around to the driver's side of the Impala. He got in the car, Sam followed suit.

He slid the key into the ignition and turned it. Her engine roared to life. She began to shake. Zeppelin played through the speakers. Dean glanced at Sam as he shifted gears, and the younger Winchester had a distant look in his eyes, a satisfied smile on his face. They were back in business.

_FIN  
Reviews appreciated!_ :]_  
Another episode is on the way! Sort of . . . Patience is a virtue and school is a bitch.  
What creatures will the brothers encounter next? Will we ever know what pulled Sam out of Hell? Stay tuned . . . ._


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